


Bourbon of Questionable Origin

by swaps55



Category: Mass Effect Trilogy
Genre: Gen, this is what happens when you drink near a keyboard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-24
Updated: 2017-10-24
Packaged: 2019-01-22 03:27:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12472420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swaps55/pseuds/swaps55
Summary: Did the turians somehow presume they could recreate the limestone found in some random state in the country of America (or was it Asia?) because they were a bunch of brazen…militants?If she were sober, she could think of something more clever than brazen militants.She’s not sober.





	Bourbon of Questionable Origin

**Author's Note:**

> I'm pretty sure this happened because I was drinking bourbon.

Miranda stares hard into the drink, hoping that if she concentrates enough on the exact ratio of bourbon to bitters and club soda, she’ll forget about how drunk she is. Is the bourbon actually from Earth? Is it some approximation distilled on some colony? Did the turians somehow presume they could recreate the limestone found in some random state in the country of America (or was it Asia?) because they were a bunch of brazen…militants?

If she were sober, she could think of something more clever than brazen militants.

She’s not sober.

It’s kind of a new thing. If she’s not careful, she might even like it.  

Someone sits down on the stool next to her. She tenses, sure for half a second it’s a stranger. Tenses even more when she thinks it might be Jacob. But it’s not. In fact, it’s a testament to just how drunk she is that she didn’t know it was Shepard the moment he walked into the room. She knows every inch of his construction, after all. Kind of hard not to when he’s meat on a slab in her bio lab for two years. 

Except, as it turns out, she knows nothing about  _him_. Especially how to handle herself in his presence when she’s had three of these perfectly crafted beverages of Bourbon of Questionable Origin, Bitters, Club Soda, and Other Things. That presumably involve fruit, if the cherry is an indication.

“Miranda.”

“Commander,” she acknowledges, stopping herself before she raises her glass in a toast.

“How’re you doing?”

“Exquisite,” she replies, and takes a sip from her glass. She didn’t toast her commanding officer, who was dead a few months ago, and doesn’t currently have a drink in his hand to toast her back with. She’s proud of herself.

“Sure?”

“Absolutely.”

She might have slurred that one. Maybe he didn’t notice. Maybe she covered for it. Surely. Definitely. Yes. She can pull of Not Drunk. It’s simply a matter of presentation.  Easy.

“Because if you need to get a little sloshed after telling your boss to go fuck himself, I’d understand.”

She blinks, realizing that she’s probably been staring at his blue eyes a little too long. Or maybe not. He probably didn’t notice. She’s really good covering for these kinds of things.  

“I’m fairly certain that I can handle the Illusive Man’s displeasure.”

She did say Illusive, didn’t she? Not elusive? Please tell her she didn’t say effusive.

Shepard’s lips quirk in a smile.

 _Fuck_. She said effusive. She knows she did. She stifles a nervous laugh by shoving her glass to her lips. She’s positive none of it spilled in the process.

Positive.

“Mind if I join you?”

Fuck.  _Fuck_.

“Of course, Commander.”

Shepard raises a hand to the turian bartender, who nods and immediately gets to work on…some kind of beverage. Because apparently he knows Shepard’s order without Shepard actually having to speak words. Because he’s Shepard, and she’s most definitively not.

Well, she  _did_  just tell her boss to fuck off while saving humanity. That seems more than a little deserving of the bartender being able to divine her drink.

“How do you do that?” she asks, as the bartender places a glass in front of Shepard. It looks amber. It probably contains bourbon. Or whiskey. Of questionable origin, because she hasn’t yet determined if the turians should be chastised for their arrogance.

Wait. Did she just ask how he did that out loud?

“Do what?”

Gods. She  _did._  Swiftly she calculates the odds of the floor opening up and swallowing her whole. If there was a hull breach on the Citadel at their precise location right now she would throw a party.

Of course, throwing a party would require leaning how to throw a party.

She’s resourceful. She’s got this.

Shepard is looking at her with a raised eyebrow. There was a question back there somewhere. An embarrassing question.

“You mean the drink?” he asks, swishing the questionable amber liquid in its glass. He’s bailing her out. She hates that he’s bailing her out. Because that means he probably knows she’s drunk.

She takes another drink. It seems like the logical thing to do.

“Yes.”

She had something better than that. Or maybe she didn’t. She probably would have had something better three drinks ago. That’s some solace, anyways.

“I have no idea what this is,” he admits, taking a swig. His entire face sours a little. She’s  _positive_  he’s making it up. She giggles anyway.

Wait. Did she just  _giggle?_

The bartender hands her another glass. Shit. She hadn’t even realized hers was empty. She covers magnificently by taking a deep swig.

“You did the right thing, you know.”

The Bourbon of Questionable Origin burns in her throat a little as she swallows. “Oh?”

No. Wait. She does  _not_  need his affirmation. Reassurance. Whatever. Nope.

Shepard ducks his head and takes another sip. “Yeah.”

Wait. Wait wait wait wait wait.

Is Shepard… _embarrassed?_

No. No. The Savior of the Citadel, or, now maybe more appropriately, the Savior of Fucking Humanity, isn’t embarrassed. Worse. He’s  _self-conscious._  Around  _her._

This totally isn’t the Maybe Bourbon talking. Unless, of course, it’s the Maybe Bourbon talking.

He takes another pull from his drink, wrinkling his nose as he swallows. In a sudden moment of clarity that only three Maybe Bourbon with Bitters, Club Soda and Some Kind of Fruit drinks in can bring, she realizes that he hates whatever the bartender thought he wanted, and it’s the most adorable thing she’s ever seen.

No. Wait. The former. Not the latter. Definitely not the latter. Nothing about the former slab of human shaped meat that is now a fully functional Shepard is cute. She knows every joint, sinew, too well. Too clinically.

But, she realizes, and doesn’t even care if it’s the Bourbon of Questionable Origin talking, she doesn’t know that quirky smile. That awkward shrug of the shoulders. That downright adolescent shift of his eyes.

“Thanks,” she says. She has no idea what she means. Except that it probably means more than ‘thanks.’

“Buy you a drink?” he asks.

“Yeah.” The reply is out of her mouth before she even knows what she’s said. But maybe there is something to this Bourbon of Questionable Origin stuff. Because that’s what she wanted to say, but she’s not sure she would have said it without three of them.

“Another,” Shepard says, pointing to her. “And I’ll have the same.”

Miranda giggles. Shepard grins.

She’ll figure out the logistics later. Right now she’s just far too pleased that her drink is better than the great Commander Shepard’s.  


End file.
